Dawn broke over Caerleon, and with it came a shift that no soldier in Norsefire's ranks could ignore. The air itself felt different—heavier, more volatile. A fire had been lit within the hearts of the people, a smoldering defiance now fanned into open resolve. Where once there had been fear in the eyes of the citizens, now there was vindication. The words of the Grand Regent had changed everything: Norsefire was no longer sanctioned by the Tower. They were nothing more than uniformed criminals, and for the first time in weeks, they were the ones afraid.
Among the ranks, those who had joined for status or ambition found themselves cast out without ceremony. Discharged. Disavowed. Whispers rippled through the more reluctant soldiers—those who clung to the hope that if they surrendered now, if they claimed ignorance or misplaced trust, the Tower might grant clemency. A chance to right their wrongs.
But not all shared that hope. Others clung stubbornly to their loyalty to Burgess, convinced this was only a temporary setback. That the man would rise again, reclaim his seat as Director, and reward their devotion with power and favor beyond measure.
Beyond the city, nestled in the highlands and veiled by thick woodland, lay one of Norsefire's hidden strongholds. The compound stirred with anxious activity. Dozens of guards moved in formation, armored vehicles lined the perimeter, and the crackle of warcasters charging filled the air. Blades and wands were polished and primed. Boots pounded against packed earth as dust swirled and the acrid scent of grease and oil clung to everything. Magic hung in the air—crystalline, sharp, and faintly sweet to the tongue, its residue coating the skin like a film of ash.
Tension rippled through the camp like a taut wire ready to snap. Captain Astrea was nowhere to be found. Rumors of her defeat, capture, or death ran rampant. In her absence, command had fallen to Sheriff Hartshorne. He stood at the operations table, fingers drumming across a detailed map of Caerleon, deep in conversation with his officers.
Then, without warning, a brilliant flash of light seared through the tent.
All heads turned.
From the shimmer stepped Lamar Burgess.
His expression was carved from fury, every muscle in his face drawn tight with rage. Without a word, he strode toward Hartshorne, fists clenched, the tension around him so suffocating it drew the breath from the room.
The storm had arrived.
"Director Burgess," Hartshorne greeted with a salute, trying to maintain formality. "Rest assured, I've—"
Before the sentence could find breath, Lamar seized him by the throat.
In a flash, Hartshorne was hauled off his feet and slammed against a stack of crates. Wood groaned. Dust scattered. The Sheriff gasped as Lamar's fingers clamped around his windpipe, squeezing with the precision of a viper. His eyes bulged. He clawed at the Director's hand, struggling for breath.
"So, you couldn't find it, hmm?" Lamar growled. "We tore that house apart. Floorboards ripped, walls gutted. From the mouseholes to the bloody rafters—and nothing." He leaned in, his breath hot against Hartshorne's face. "Keenah was probably full of it, you said. Weren't those your exact words, Sheriff?"
Hartshorne choked, his boots scraping against the crates.
"And now look at us," Lamar spat. "Ruined. Cornered. The Tower, my Tower, teeters on the edge of collapse, and you—you—are the reason. You and all of those worthless, insufferable heathens. Kaltz, Callahan, Clegane, nothing but failure after failure, every step of the way!" His teeth bared like a rabid hound. "And believe me, had Valerian and his wretched rebels not butchered those fools, I'd have lined them up and done it myself!"
"Burgess—L-Lamar, please—" Hartshorne wheezed. "We didn't know… and even if we did… we would have lacked the proper—"
"The proper what? Competence?" Lamar hissed. "We are here—I am here—drowning in your failures, buried beneath the rubble of your inadequacy, and it is the Grand Regent himself who now holds the spade!"
He drew Hartshorne in closer, face to face.
"And mark me," Lamar snarled, "when the axe falls, you'll bleed first."
"Lamar… w-we can fix this," Hartshorne rasped, clutching his bruised neck. "I can make it right."
"Don't waste your breath," Lamar snapped, releasing his grip. Hartshorne dropped hard onto his haunches, coughing violently as he clutched his throat.
"I knew better than to place faith in you," Lamar snarled, stepping back with disgust. "This was meant to be a triumph—my triumph. But in the unlikely event that those rats gained ground, I made preparations. A contingency."
He turned toward the table, eyes scanning the map with cold calculation.
Hartshorne blinked through the pain. "Contingency?" he echoed.
Lamar didn't look back. "Yes. A final play. One they won't recover from."
The sheriff rose shakily to his feet, still rubbing the red marks around his throat. "What in blazes are you on about, Lamar?" he asked, breath tight, suspicion bleeding into his tone.
A slow, twisted grin crept across Lamar's face. Something cold, nearly unhinged.
"You'll see," he murmured, eyes gleaming with dreadful certainty. "They all will. And when the dust has settled, there shall be a great cry throughout Avalon, such as there has never been, nor ever will be again."
****
Back at the precinct, the Norsefire squad stood surrounded. The bravado they once wore like armor had withered, replaced by pale faces and twitching fingers. The leader, so smug before, now found himself encircled by Tower personnel no longer held back by fear of insubordination. Wands were drawn. Blades unsheathed. Their numbers alone made resistance a fool's errand. The Grand Regent's words had been absolute: Norsefire were no longer officers of the law—they were enemies of the state.
The leader swallowed hard. His eyes locked on Bastion, who stared back with the cold, hungry gaze of a man looking for an excuse to turn the floor red.
"Stand fast, men," the leader barked, lifting his wand with a shaky hand. His squad huddled close behind him. "Remember your training. Remember your allegiance—to the Tower, to the Director!"
"You don't want to do this, son," Frank warned as he stepped down a single stair. His grip tightened around the hilt of his sword. "You heard the Regent. Throw down your arms. Surrender, and you might live long enough to regret your choices."
"And then what?" the Norsefire leader snapped, his wand now trained on Frank. Bastion moved, but Frank's outstretched arm held him back. "We walk out into the street just to be clapped in irons? Hauled off to Revel's End like common filth?" His voice cracked with desperation. "I won't spend a decade rotting in a cell like some rabid cur—not when all we did was follow orders!"
"Oh, that's rich," Bastion growled. "What, you think all those beatings, arrests, and black-baggings were done with a heavy heart? You think I buy that you went home and cried into a bottle, feeling all busted up inside?"
He jabbed a finger at the leader. "I saw you. All of you. Smirking while you cracked skulls. Laughing while people begged. Hell, half of you looked bored if there wasn't blood on the ground."
His teeth clenched. "So, don't you dare try to pin this on Hartshorne or Vikander. You chose to be monsters. Every time you drew that baton, swung that blade or raised that wand—you chose."
Bastion swept his arm toward the crowd. "Take a good look around you. Most of these folks? Born and raised in Caerleon. You really think they don't have friends? Family?"
The Norsefire guards glanced around—every eye on them was burning with quiet hatred.
"You brought fire and brimstone to their doorstep," Bastion growled. "Turned their streets into warzones. Drenched it with blood. Stacked it with warm bodies. You really think no one here's lost someone? You think they don't know a name carved into stone because of you?"
His grip on the blade tightened. "And believe me when I say, whatever's waiting for you in Revel's End… that's mercy. Compared to what these people are thinking of doing to you sons of bitches right now." He raised his sword slowly. "I should know. Cause I'm thinking it too."
"Kid, you are not helping," Frank muttered, shooting Bastion a sharp glare before turning his attention back to the guards.
"You lot are young. Yeah, you screwed up. Big time." His voice lowered, steady. "I'm not gonna lie to you—chances are that badge won't stay pinned on your chest. But that doesn't mean this is the end."
He took another step down the stairs, one hand open.
"Own up to it. Surrender. Do your time, pay your dues. A stint in Revel's End, maybe some probation. As Wilhelm used to say, take your damned medicine. No matter how bitter the taste. No matter how much it stings, you can come back from this."
The Norsefire guards stood frozen, unreadable. Tension hung in the air.
"It won't be easy," Frank continued. "But it'll be possible. You'll get a second chance." He paused. "But that ends right now if you don't stand down. You die here, and that's it. No redemption. No memory but as a traitor in the ground."
His jaw set. "And Burgess? He won't remember your names. He never cared. You'll just be one more piece he threw into the fire to keep himself warm." He took a breath. "That's not how you want to go out. And it sure as hell ain't how I want to see it end."
A beat passed. Tension gripped the room like a vice. Muscles coiled. Hands clenched around wands and blades. Eyes locked, sweat trailing down furrowed brows.
Then—slowly—the Norsefire guards straightened. One by one, they let their weapons fall. Wands struck tile with hollow clacks, blades clattered like dropped guilt. Hands lifted. AEGIS guards moved in, securing them without resistance. The leader hesitated before giving Frank a look—not defiant, not proud. Just tired. Almost apologetic.
Frank gave a nod in return. No words needed.
As the last pair of cuffs clicked shut, the building seemed to exhale. Weapons lowered. Shoulders eased. The threat was over—for now.
Bastion stepped to Frank's side, sliding his sword into its sheath. "Still think you're not Captain material?" he said, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth.
Frank shook his head. "I know I'm not." His expression tightened. "But this ain't done yet."
He turned to the room. "Anyone who can wield a wand or swing steel—on me! We're takin' City Hall!"
A roar erupted. Fists rose in unison. A wall of resolve.
Frank and Bastion bolted down the stairs, their boots pounding with purpose. Behind them, a flood of bodies followed, united by fury and hope.
They burst through the precinct doors, surging out onto the cobblestone streets. From shuttered windows and doorways, the people of Caerleon watched—and for the first time in months, they felt it again.
Hope.
And it marched.
****
In the center of Caerleon, where once laughter and trade filled the air, the city square stood silent—scarred and ruined. A platoon of AEGIS guards gathered amidst the rubble. Some strapped on braces, others inspected swords, checked supplies, whispered strategies. Men from Langston's unit stood shoulder to shoulder with new allies, many of them former members of Captain Clegane's infamous company.
There was a quiet relief among them now. Clegane, long feared, long loathed—was finally gone. So was his lapdog, Astrea. No more snarling orders. No more denied transfers or threats whispered in hallways. No more forced silence under a boot pressed hard to the neck.
Langston had dug deep in the weeks since. He'd unearthed the depths of Clegane's depravity. The smuggling rings, the protection rackets, the bribes buried beneath forged reports. The more he learned, the more bile rose in his throat, and the more satisfaction he felt knowing the bastard no longer drew breath. Just another name struck from Nemesis' hit list.
He stood before a stack of crates, arms folded tight, eyes fixed on the ruined square. The air was thick with smog and the acrid tang of spent crystals, but beneath it, he felt something different. A shift. A stirring. The wind of change.
His gaze swept the broken stone beneath his feet. Cracks spiderwebbed across once-pristine tiles. The great fountain, once a symbol of Caerleon's pride—now lay in rubble, its dry basin filled with ash and memory.
He clenched his jaw. Rage simmered just beneath the surface.
The city would endure. He believed that. It would rise from the wreckage stronger, wiser. But to see it brought so low. Left bleeding in the streets under the heel of a madman. It struck something deep. Something that refused to forgive.
If Wilhelm were still alive, Langston knew exactly what the old bastard would have done. He'd have taken that battle axe and buried it in Lamar Burgess's skull without a word.
And Langston wasn't far behind him.
"You're awful quiet, Langston."
The voice came low and gravelly from acros him. Langston turned, catching sight of the orc perched on a crate—Orgrim, hunched forward, a half-empty bottle of vodka dangling between two thick fingers.
"But your mind?" Orgrim gave a faint grin. "Loud as hell."
Langston let out a dry snort. "You reading minds now?"
"Not exactly," the orc said, lifting the bottle to his lips. He took a long swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked at Langston with smoldering amber eyes. "I may not know your thoughts, but I know the weight behind that silence. Rage. Grief. All that fury clawing inside your chest."
He nodded toward the ruined buildings lining the square, the shattered fountain, the broken streets. "This whole city's screaming for payback. It's in the walls, the ground. It's in the people. And it's in you."
Langston's jaw tightened, but he didn't speak.
Orgrim took the last swig from the bottle and set it down with a hollow clink. "That fire you carry," he said quietly. "I know it well. Lived with it so long, I stopped calling it rage. It just became... me." He glanced up at the grey sky, the clouds like bruises overhead, before turning his gaze back to Langston. "After all, you were the one who lit it."
Langston said nothing at first. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his breath long and ragged.
"It wasn't until recently I realised how useless apologies are," he murmured. "How empty. Words, in the end, are just that—words. Most of the time, we say sorry not for them, but for us. Hoping it'll ease the guilt, make the weight easier to carry."
His eyes dropped to the ground. "Didn't bring Iris back to her parents. Didn't bring your family back either."
Orgrim's jaw clenched, but he remained silent.
Langston shook his head. "I've spent years trying to justify it all. Telling myself it was war, that I was following orders. Anything to help me sleep a little easier." He looked away. "But every time I close my eyes, I'm back in Vol'Dunin."
Orgrim's face darkened at the name.
"I still hear it," Langston went on. "The screams. The wood crackling. The smell of smoke... and burning flesh." He rubbed his hands down his face as if trying to scrub the memory away. "And then there's you—blood on your face, shouting at me through the fire, your eyes full of rage. I saw what I was in that moment. A monster."
He took a sharp breath. "And I deserved it."
A heavy pause settled between the two men. Long, uncertain, thick with years of unspoken history. Then, the tension eased from Orgrim's broad shoulders.
"Years ago," he said quietly, "you told me that when all this was over. When the dust had settled—you'd turn in your badge. Lay down your sword. Walk away from the Tower." His amber gaze rose to meet Langston's. "You said you'd return to Vol'Dunin... and start a school for my kin. Do you remember that?"
Langston blinked, startled. "By the Gods... I really did say that, didn't I?"
Orgrim nodded once. "So, answer me this, and answer truthfully. If you had the chance to do it over, to walk away from all this and keep your word... would you?"
Langston said nothing at first. The silence stretched, not with hesitation, but with the weight of reflection. Then his gaze met Orgrim's, steady and resolute.
"Without question."
There was a faint twitch in Orgrim's brow as the sound of bootsteps cut through the square. He and Langston turned just as a formation of guards marched into view—nearly a hundred strong. They moved with purpose, shoulder to shoulder, more a stormfront than a squad. At the front were Frank and Bastion, leading them like generals. A confident grin tugged at Langston's lips as Orgrim rose to his feet.
The column came to a halt before him. Langston stepped forward to meet them.
"Took you long enough," he said, glancing toward Frank. "Don't tell me those Norsefire bastards gave you a hard time."
Frank gave a pointed look to the bodies scattered around the square, each one clad in Norsefire colors. "Says the man standing in the middle of a graveyard. Looks like you've been busy."
Langston shrugged. "In my defense, I did ask nicely."
Bastion's mismatched eyes swept over the square, then caught sight of Orgrim. He did a double take, squinted, then let out a sharp cry of recognition—loud enough to make both Frank and Langston flinch.
"You!" Bastion jabbed a finger at the orc. "You're that pigskin who tried to turn me and Langston into flapjacks a few weeks back!"
Orgrim folded his arms with a sigh. "Crass. But I suppose I shouldn't expect better from a Reinhardt."
"Glad we're all on the same page," Frank muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "This right here is why I don't tell you things—you speak before your brain catches up."
Langston chuckled. "Spitting image of Wilhelm. Same mouth, same lack of filter."
Bastion glanced between Langston and Orgrim, suspicion flaring. "So, what now? You two best friends now? Had a hug and called it square?"
Orgrim's eyes narrowed. "Hardly. But as the saying goes—'the enemy of my enemy is my friend.'" His gaze shifted to Langston, steady and cold. "For now."
"That aside, what's the news from City Hall?" Frank asked, his tone clipped, gaze steely.
Langston crossed his arms. "Latest word says they've locked it down. Entrances barricaded, upper floors fortified." He paused, thoughtful. "I'd wager some of them deserted the moment the tide turned. The ones still in there? Either too far up Burgess' ass or too thick to know better."
"Well," Bastion muttered, cracking his knuckles, "if they're swinging first, they'd better be ready to get hit back twice as hard. They've had their chance to walk. I don't think anyone's in the mood to hear them cry about orders."
"Agreed," Orgrim rumbled, his tusks catching the dull light as grey clouds thickened overhead. "There'll be no mercy. If they've chosen to follow Burgess into the grave, it's only right we help them get there."
Frank gave a slow nod. "Fair enough. We've wasted enough time." His eyes turned to Langston. "You ready for this?"
Langston's grin was all teeth. "More than you know."
Frank returned it, just as sharp. "Then lead the way."
****
The walls of City Hall had stood since the days Castle Excalibur first rose from the earth. It was a monument to Caerleon's past—a living relic from when the city was little more than a hamlet for fledgling scholars, slowly transformed into a thriving crossroad and a trade hub.
Through centuries, it bore witness to every chapter of history: sieges and uprisings, invasions and wars, fires and storms—even dragons. Time and again, flames had scoured it clean, and yet it rose anew each time, stronger than before. A testament to Caerleon itself.
Now, once more, its ancient halls rang with the sounds of war.
Battle cries echoed through the corridors as AEGIS forces clashed with Norsefire guards. Wands flared, releasing storms of light and elemental fury. Fire danced along the rafters, tapestries igniting in waves of flame. Furniture shattered under the shockwaves, portraits exploded into fragments, and shards of crystal and glass littered the blood-streaked marble floors.
Steel followed magic. Swords found flesh. Bodies crumpled to the ground, some clutching at fatal wounds, others wide-eyed in stunned silence as life slipped away.
Frank and Langston cut a path through the chaos, blades stained red, their strikes brutal and merciless. Every swing carved down another foe, the air thick with the scent of blood and scorched fabric. Bastion's greatsword roared with fire, sweeping arcs leaving trails of embers in its wake as it cleaved through Norsefire squads. His expression twisted into a half-snarl, half-smirk—fierce and wild, every strike fueled by months of pent-up rage.
And beside them, Orgrim moved like a thunderstorm wrapped in steel. His hammer—blackened, its veins glowing with molten fire—smashed through armor, shattered bones, and left trails of broken bodies in his wake. Every blow echoed like a drumbeat of war, final and absolute.
"Go!" one of the AEGIS guardians cried out to Frank and the rest of them as he blocked an oncoming blade with his own, gritting his teeth as he braced against it. "We got this!"
Frank and Langston shared a gaze and nodded. He then whistled to Bastion. "Come on, kid!" he cried out.
Bastion kicked a limp body off his blade, sliding the sword back across his back before charging forward. Langston pivoted, his sword flashing in a deadly arc as it severed a guard's head clean from his shoulders. But as he turned, another figure lunged toward him—blade leveled, eyes full of murder.
Langston's gaze snapped to the attacker, too late to react.
But the strike never reached him.
Steel punched into Orgrim's abdomen instead, the blade sinking deep. The orc let out a guttural grunt, blood spilling from between his tusks as his amber eyes locked onto the guard. With a snarl, he reeled back and drove a fist into the man's face—bone crunched, skull collapsed, blood and gore painting the wall behind him.
"Orgrim!" Langston dropped to his side as the orc slumped to one knee, ripping the sword from his gut with a shuddering groan. Thick, dark blood poured through his fingers as he clutched the wound.
Langston parried a charging guard and drove his blade into the man's gut, then dropped beside Orgrim again, panic rising in his throat. "What's happening? Why aren't you healing?"
Orgrim's tusked mouth curled into a grim, blood-flecked smirk. "The sword's strength is fading—and it's been dying a slow death for some time now." He coughed, a thick splatter of black blood hitting the stone. "Asriel, Isha… all of us. We've been burning the last of the wick."
He looked to Langston, eyes shadowed but resolute. "Every spell, every wound we walk away from—it could be the one that finally takes us. And when that moment comes…" His words dropped, heavy with finality. "The Goddess of Vengeance will come to collect what she's owed. Just as she always does. Just as she did with Damocles."
Langston's jaw clenched. "Then, we'll find a doctor, you're not—"
"No time." Orgrim slammed his war hammer into the stone to brace himself upright. His breath was ragged, but his eyes still burned with fire. "We finish this. On our feet. As warriors."
Langston hesitated, then gave a sharp nod.
Together, they turned toward the battle and charged after Frank and Bastion.
The four of them sprinted down the corridor, boots pounding against scorched marble, the air thick with smoke and the stench of charred fabric. At the far end loomed the elevator—bare-boned, industrial, its brass plating catching the flickering glow of torches and magical fire like a relic from another era.
Langston reached into his coat mid-stride, fingers wrapping around a small gold tablet etched with intricate lines. Without breaking pace, he hurled it to Frank.
Frank caught it with one hand, skidding to the control panel beside the lift. He slammed the tablet into the receiving slot. A dull click sounded, followed by a mechanical grind. The metal doors shuddered open.
"Get in!" Frank barked, cutting through the chaos just as the hallway behind them erupted—steel clashing against steel, and streaks of wild magic slicing through the air.
Bastion pivoted, his short sword already drawn. Arcane sigils flared along its edge as he sent blasts of magic back toward the encroaching Norsefire guards. Fire exploded down the corridor, buying them precious seconds as he backed into the elevator.
Langston shoved Orgrim through the threshold before stepping in himself. Frank followed, hitting the button with a clenched fist. With a deep, metallic groan, the carriage lurched downward into darkness.
They exhaled together, breathless and silent, the only sound the hum of the old mechanism descending into the belly of the building. But the tension still clung to them like a second skin.
Bastion sheathed his blade with a quiet clink. "What do you reckon's waiting for us down there, old man?"
Frank didn't answer at first. His gaze followed the trembling needle above the door, watching it inch left with agonizing slowness.
"If I know Burgess," he finally said, "whatever it is—it won't be good."
****
The grating shriek of steel tore through the silence as the elevator shuddered to a halt. Its doors dragged open with a metallic groan, the neglected mechanisms whining from years without use or oil. The sound echoed into the abyss ahead, vanishing into the pitch black beyond like a warning.
A damp, choking weight hung in the air. The stench was immediate—stale earth, mold, and something else, something sharp and chemical, buried beneath the rot. It was the kind of place untouched by life for years, if not decades. Only the weak glow from the elevator lit the space before them, barely casting light a few feet into the suffocating dark.
All four stepped out in silence, blades already drawn, eyes sweeping the void. But no footsteps met them. No shadows stirred. The stillness was absolute—unnatural.
Langston sniffed once, then again, brow furrowing. "You smell that?"
"If you mean the mold that's probably trying to kill me?" Bastion muttered, sword in hand. "Yeah. Real hard to miss."
"No…" Langston's was quieter now, focused. "Something else."
Frank inhaled deeply, and his eyes narrowed. "It's faint, but… yeah. There's something acrid in the air."
"Lacrima," Orgrim said flatly, his tusked mouth tight. "And not a trickle. There's a lot of it."
Before another word could be uttered, the corridor ahead flared to life. One by one, crystal sconces embedded into the walls ignited with a pulse of white-blue energy, cascading in both directions like a chain reaction. What had been blackness now revealed itself—and the sight stole the breath from all four of them.
Crates upon crates stretched down the tunnel as far as the eye could see, stacked like siege supplies in an ancient vault. Lacrima crystals—brilliant, jagged, and glowing in hues of violet, emerald, and sapphire—spilled from open containers, littering the stone floor like shattered treasure. Some pulsed faintly. Others crackled, unstable.
"By the Gods above…" Langston breathed.
"There's enough juice in here to power Caerleon for the next hundred years," Bastion said, eyes wide as his gaze danced across the endless stacks. "Maybe the whole damn continent."
Frank stepped forward, frowning. "Hundred? Try a thousand. What the hell's Burgess playing at?"
"There's no way in hell he moved all this down here in a day. Not even a fortnight," Langston muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "This… this must've been in motion for months. Maybe even from the first damned day he set foot in Caerleon."
"Whatever it is," Orgrim rumbled, stepping deeper into the corridor, "we'll find the answer at the heart of this place."
The three men exchanged a glance before falling in behind the orc. Their footsteps echoed on the stone, the light from the walls guiding them deeper into the belly of the serpent.
****
Hartshorne felt his blood turn to ice. Sweat chilled against his skin in the crisp mountain air. His lips parted, trembling. Knees near to giving way. He'd heard every word—but his mind refused to believe it.
"Lamar… w-what are you saying?" he rasped, jaw quivering. "You can't possibly mean… surely you wouldn't…"
Lamar inhaled deeply, then exhaled with a slow grin that twisted into something darker. Something unhinged. His gaze drifted toward Caerleon, a distant sprawl beneath the mountain's gaze.
"I've always known," he began, unnervingly calm, "that the sins I've sown would return one day. That the ghosts I buried would claw their way from the earth and drag me to the pyre I built for others."
He leaned back against the table, arms folding as his smirk deepened. "No matter the contingencies, no matter the power I hoarded, it was never going to last. A house of cards was never meant to endure."
He chuckled softly. "So, I made a plan. One soaked in irony so vile, so glorious, that even the Gods might laugh themselves mad. The greatest jest in Avalon's history." His gaze flicked skyward, almost reverent. "I came to power through tragedy. It's only fitting I should leave the same way."
Hartshorne staggered forward, his hand gesturing helplessly to the city below. "But… all those people. Our men. Students. Citizens who've done nothing—"
"Oh, how precious," Lamar interrupted, tilting his head. "The ruthless Sheriff of Caerleon has grown a conscience." He stepped forward, the smirk never leaving his face. "Perhaps the Magistrates will take that into account when choosing whether to hang you or put you to the sword."
He stopped inches from Hartshorne.
"Don't delude yourself into thinking you'll escape judgment. You stood beside me in Camelot. The blood spilled during the Insurrection stains your hands as much as mine."
Hartshorne opened his mouth—but Lamar cut him off with a snap.
"And spare me the pathetic line about 'following orders.'" His words sharpened like steel. "Do you know what happened to the last sods who tried that excuse in King Uther's court? Ripped apart by beasts. Publicly. I was there."
Hartshorne swallowed hard.
"They think they've got me cornered over Dah'Tan," Lamar said, his gaze drifting back to the city stretched beneath them. "Let them believe it. Let the esteemed Grand Regent and his decrepit Council brace for what's coming." His smile darkened. "This won't be a scandal they can sweep beneath the marble. No—this will be a reckoning so vast, so catastrophic, the realm itself will cry out for blood. Their blood."
He gave a slight, disdainful laugh. "And without that sanctimonious relic Wilhelm to haul them from the depths, I dare say they'll drown in the hole they've so artfully dug for themselves."
Then, quieter, he added,"And as they sift through the rubble, scrambling for order, for meaning, I'll be miles away—watching it all unravel with a glass of fine wine in hand. And I know Avalon, gutless, spineless, hopelessly naive—they'll come crawling. Begging for salvation. For their messiah."
"And this time, there'll be no Regent. No Council. No blasted kings. No squirming nest of vermin whispering in corners, thinking themselves clever. No… this time, I'll be thorough. This time, I'll build a world where the only voices left are the ones I permit to speak."
"Regardless, there's word Reagan and the Reinhardt boy are heading to City Hall," Hartshorne pressed. "They might already be there. What if they manage to stop it?"
Lamar turned slowly. "Stop it?" he echoed, a flash of mockery dancing in his eyes. "Oh, Sheriff. Do I look like some cheap villain from a Penny Dreadful? Do you truly believe I'd speak of the finer points of my plan if there were any chance it could be undone?"
A beat passed. His grin grew cold. "You see, I triggered it thirty-five minutes ago."
****
Bastion, Frank, Langston, and Orgrim stood frozen at the heart of the underground junction, where the tunnels converged in a vast, open chamber. Crates stretched endlessly, stacked high and bursting with Lacrima crystals—an ocean of raw, volatile power.
At the center of it all loomed a massive device, patched together with exposed wiring and crude craftsmanship. Its crystal core pulsed with an eerie lavender light, and within its frame, gears ticked forward in stiff, mechanical lurches.
Mounted atop it was a brass clock face. The short hand pointed squarely at twelve. The long hand sat three ticks away. The second hand clicked forward without pause.
Five minutes.
Bastion broke the silence. "Frank… tell me that ain't what I think it is."
Frank stared, pale as parchment, lips parted. "Oh, rut me sideways."